Thrust
by peanutbutterer
Summary: Deeks watches Callen and Sam drive away, allowing himself a moment to take a calming breath before opening the door and dropping into the passenger seat beside his partner. It doesn't help.


Deeks watches Callen and Sam drive away, allowing himself a moment to take a calming breath before opening the door and dropping into the passenger seat beside his partner.

It doesn't help.

"I can't believe you."

Kensi starts the engine and flicks on the headlights. "Me."

His anger is tangible - a hot, white ball that's lodged in his gut. It makes it hard to breathe. "Yes, you. Is anyone else here?"

"You can't believe me?" She shifts the car into drive and pulls away from the curb. Her movements are sharp and quick.

"Yes, Kensi." He buckles his seatbelt, keeping it loose enough so he can twist to face her fully. "I can't believe _you_. You, who practically - no, not practically - _literally_ threw yourself in front of a bullet."

"It's my job, Deeks," she says in her thoroughly pissed voice - the one that usually makes him back off or change tack, but now it just drives him further.

"Your job isn't to get yourself killed."

Her hands clench on the wheel, knuckles white. "My job is to keep other people from getting killed."

"Not at the expense of your own life."

"It wasn't at the expense of my own life. I'm still alive!"

"You almost weren't!"

"It hit my vest, Deeks. Just like I knew it would."

The anger ball swells inside him and he feels like he's choking. "Just like you _thought _it would. Not the same thing."

"It's exactly the same thing."

He throws up his hands. "Because it's impossible to consider the fact that you might miscalculate? That launching yourself in front of a bullet may not be the best course of action, regardless of how much kevlar you're wearing?"

"Damn it, Deeks." She pulls the car over to the side of the road and slams it into park.

He's thrown forward enough that his seatbelt catches and locks. "Jesus!"

"I did what I had to do."

"No, you didn't." He snaps off his seatbelt and rubs at his shoulder. "You didn't have to do it. That's my point."

She unbuckles and turns to face him; even in the darkened car he can see her face, contorted in anger, eyes red. "What, was I supposed to let him shoot you?"

"No, but -"

"But nothing. But _nothing_!" She slams her palm on the dash. "You know what my job is? It's to keep my partner safe - to keep you safe. And that's what I did. That's what I'll always do."

"You have to be alive in order to do that!"

"I didn't die!"

"You _could _have!"

"So could you!"

She's up in his face now - or he's up in hers - he doesn't remember who moved where, but there they are. She's so close he can feel the heat of her as he tries to swallow against his anger.

He's about to argue - to tell her he might have been fine - when she closes the distance between them and crushes her lips to his.

He freezes, shock trumping the anger that had given him forward momentum.

She pulls away; she's shaking her head and rubbing her face and he can hear his heart beating and he can't even move and he can't even think -

"Sorry," she says so quietly he almost can't hear it. "I'm sorry, I - sorry. I just, I was going to - I thought I was going to lose -"

He's still not thinking, but his body's moving and he's closing the distance between them, hands grabbing the back of her head and bring her lips back to his.

Her hands fist in his shirt as she climbs over and onto his lap. The window's cold and hard against his back but all he feels is the warmth and weight of her on top of him and the strands of hair that tangle in his fingers, the press of her lips against his. Kensi, all he feels is _Kensi_.

"You shouldn't have done that," he says against her mouth, the words muffled as she swallows them.

"But you -" his thumb brushes the skin of her hip and she finishes with a gasp.

He fumbles for the hem of her shirt with his free hand, tugging when he finds it. She gets the message, sitting back on his thighs and pulling it up and over, tossing it onto the dash before launching herself back toward him. His hands come up to catch her and they fall against the seat. She's soft skin and intense heat and he doesn't think he'll ever let her go.

"Shirt," she says against his lips, yanking at the buttons that run down the front. "Off."

He hasn't even moved to oblige when the seat back falls out from under him and he's dropped into the reclining position. His head bangs into the headrest.

"Ouch!"

She ignores him, adjusting her position so she's straddling him again. Her breathing is shallow and heavy, fogging the windows and reassuring him that they're both still there. Still whole.

"I don't forgive you," she says, her fingers reaching for his belt, "for yelling at me out there - for second guessing the choices I made in the field."

"Perfect," he says, yanking his shirt open when he loses patience with it. Buttons clatter across the car interior. It sounds like shells hitting the pavement and it makes him want to scream. "I don't forgive you either."

She splays her hands across his newly exposed chest and he thinks she may be as terrified as he is. "Make-up sex first and then make-up later?"

He flicks open the clasp of her bra and relishes the thumping of her heart. "Seems as good an order as any."


End file.
